My Infinite
by DreamsAreMyWords
Summary: \\A Glee AU, Quinntana, told in a series of letters and memories. There will be a total of twelve letters as they recall their story/ When Quinn runs away to Lopez apartments, she immediately clashes with her landlords' granddaughter, Santana. Normally Santana wouldn't waste her time with such a bitch but she's curious to find out what Quinn is hiding from the world... *ON HIATUS*
1. Quinn's Journal: Entry 1

**A/N: Hey guys, so basically, I'm not going to tell you a whole lot of how this story works, you'll just have to read and find out. There will be letters between them mixed in between every proper chapter. This is basically just another way to tell the story of Quinn and Santana and how they fell in love, and what happened between them.**

* * *

_Dear **Santana**,_

_Well, this is certainly going to be interesting, in the very least. Want to know why?_

_You say you hate romance. You think it's cheesy, melodramatic and horrendously corny. Yet here I am, writing our story. Too bad, darling. You'll love me anyway._

_This is a gift for our anniversary, of course—if you were here. I wish you were. Right now I'm curled up by the fire, and I swear I can see your eyes in the flames as they flicker—odd, to think I see a flash of dark brown in such vivid yellow and red. I'm wrapped up in the blanket we made together. I still think this is the softest blanket I've ever felt. I can't stop petting it._

_I hope you enjoy this gift, love. It's the thought that counts, is it not?_

_And here we start, the story of us, Fabray and Lopez, enemies at worst, the Universe&U at best, and infinites in between._

_Yours always,_

**_Quinn _**

_x_


	2. Survival

_**Quinn**_

* * *

I stared at the letter I held gingerly in my hands as I stood outside a huge, gleaming white building that resembled the White House more than it did to the faded picture of a half-dilapidated apartment that was currently tucked in my back right pocket. The letter clearly stated that the rent would be two hundred dollars per month. The building I was currently standing before did not look as if it would only cost twenty-four hundred dollars per year to live there.

Clearing my throat in order to prevent myself from uttering an alarmed squeak, I blinked down at the letter I held. Alma Lopez was my landlord and a close friend of my father's. My father had assured me that Mrs. Lopez was one hundred percent trustworthy. Yet...

I leaned to the right, peered around the edge of the building. Nothing but brown apartments. I leaned to the left and saw the same thing. Frowning, I drew the picture out of my pocket, unfolded it, lifted it and shifted my gaze over building behind it. There was obvious similarity, such as the sign in front of the steps reading, "**Lopez Family Villages"**, the grouping of mailboxes beside it, and the structure of the building and the buildings around it. Yet the building in the picture was old—old enough to be paying two hundred dollars every four weeks to live at. This building here looked like it had just been built months ago.

Stifling the panic that had risen in my chest, I stuffed the letter and the picture back into my pocket, picked up my suitcases and proceeded to struggle up the steps.

"Quinn Fabray?"

Panting from the effort, I dropped her bags and blew my blonde fringe out of my eyes to look up at a tall, graying man with a belly the size of my entire body. His face split in a grin when I nodded.

"I am Manuel Lopez." He extended a beefy hand for me to shake. He must be the Alma Lopez's husband, I realized, spotting the golden wedding band on his left hand. Gingerly—I didn't like touching strangers—I gripped his four fingers and shook. Unfazed, he took my bags and piled them under one large arm. He began to speak as he led me up a flight of stairs. "Follow me, follow me! Your father said you'd be here any minute, and that was an hour ago. I was worried you'd gotten lost! Did you have trouble finding the place?"

"A little," I admitted as I climbed steps. "Ah, Mr. Lopez, you did say this would only cost me—"

"Two-hundred dollars a month, yes." He looked back at me over his shoulder, winked. "Only the best for Russell Fabray's daughter!"

I forced a smile, nodded. Then I spoke quickly before he could interrupt, "Yes but this apartment looks too expensive for—"

"No, no, no." Mr. Lopez set the suitcases down outside of a door. He rummaged through his pockets for a moment before fishing out a golden key with the number 2 engraved on it. "I assured Russell that his daughter would have the best, so she's going to get it." I jumped, startled, when Mr. Lopez suddenly shouted, "Santana!"

The door behind her rattled before creaking open. "What?"

I turned around to see a woman—one who looked half-asleep, with her long tumbled dark hair and groggy expression—standing in the doorway.

"Go get the rest of Miss Fabray's bags from the lobby and bring them up here."

Santana blinked blearily. "Fabray? Russell's daughter?"

I frowned. The woman couldn't have been any older than me. Why would she call my father—the prestigious Russell Fabray—by his first name?

"Yes!" Mr. Lopez said impatiently. Santana, a resigned expression on her smooth face, stepped out of her room. I realized that, oddly enough, she wore jeans and a sweater. She was even still wearing shoes. Had she fallen asleep fully clothed? "Will you please go fetch the rest of her bags from the lobby and bring them to room two?"

"Yeah, yeah," she sighed, closing the door behind her.

As she left, Mr. Lopez finally slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. I was unimpressed as I stepped in and turned, observing in dissatisfaction that the place was tiny. My bedroom was even smaller; the bed itself was only a twin-sized. The bathroom, however, was reasonable, with a master tub, and the kitchen was decent.

"What do you think?" asked Mr. Lopez, and he sounded so eager that I couldn't bear to be truthful.

"It's, uh...nice. Very clean." I offered, because it was.

He grinned again. "Excellent!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Now, here's your key..." He dropped the key into my upturned palm. "And in case you have any problems, my number's on the fridge. My granddaughter, Santana, lives just across from you and I'm sure she'll help you if you have any maintenance issues."

_She was his granddaughter? _I thought. And knew maintenance? Hm. That was unusual, and not just because normally maintenance seemed like, well, more a man's job. She must've been the lazy prodigy type of child that lived off her rich grandparents. I didn't like it when people were like that.

Mr. Lopez began to back away towards the door. "I'll just leave you to get settled, then. Again, we're very happy to have you, Miss Lopez." He crossed the small living room once more, took my hand and shook it. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Alone in my small apartment, I took a disappointed glance at the bedroom a last time before sinking down into the couch taking up most of the space in the living room. The television a few feet away from me was tiny too, and was one of the rare old box types. It was currently perched precariously near the edge of the end table it sat on. I glanced at the clock on the wall over the television and decided that since it was only just nearing evening, I had time to watch the news before I needed to bathe and get to bed.

I picked up the remote sitting on the arm of the couch, punched the power button. Nothing. I tried a few more times, then gave up and stood, walked to the television and manually pressed the power button. Again nothing. I bent, peered under the end table and discovered that the power plug to the television was broken, cut in half as though with a knife. Great.

There was a knock on the door and I jumped in surprise; my head hit the underside of the end table with a loud crack. Irritation seared sharper than the pain. Muttering curse words under my breath, I rubbed the top of my head as I got to my feet and went to open the door.

"Hey. I have your suitcases here." Santana stood with every one of her extra bags piled in his arms.

"Come in," I said, unable to keep the annoyance out of my tone. Santana noticed. She cocked an eyebrow as she eased into the living room, dropped the suitcases on her couch.

"Is there a problem?" she said, and her tone took on an edge that immediately put my back up.

Frowning, I dropped my hand from my head and looked at her. She was nearly the exact same height as me. Up close to her, it was disconcerting to see how attractive she was. Her hair was dark and glossy, and hung to her upper back in tumbling waves that were most likely there from sleeping. She had beautiful eyes, I noticed. A deep brown and framed by the kind of lashes most women killed to have, which wasn't too surprising considering she was Mexican and most Mexicans had beautiful lashes.

I suddenly realized that she was awaiting an answer.

"Um, yes. Yes, there is." I pointed at the television. "Doesn't work."

"Really?" Seeming mildly surprised, Santana walked over to the television, crouched down and took a peek at the broken wire. "Hm. Well." She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face and sweeping it over her shoulder. "I can take care of it tomorrow afternoon...you don't need it tonight, do you?" she added, glancing up at me.

"No." _Though it would have been nice._

"Alright." She stood and yawned, and I decided that I didn't like her. Lazy, I thought. I bet all she did was sleep. The reason she wanted to wait until the following afternoon was probably just so she could sleep in. "So, where are you coming from? I know Russell told my dad that you were in New York for awhile, then you went to London."

"I don't really want to discuss that at the moment," I said coolly. I wasn't exactly on speaking terms with my father, and I knew that this Santana girl would run to him at first chance. Hell, my father had probably asked Santana to dig up some dirt in the first place.

"Okay." There was a crease between Santana's brows as she squinted at me. Disconcerted under such an intense gaze and annoyed that I was disconcerted, I stood straighter and grumbled, "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to burn a hole into my face."

She blinked, long lashes falling and rising over coffee colored eyes. "I'm not trying to burn a hole into your face. I'm just trying to figure you out."

_Fat chance of victory there,_ I thought with a mental snort. To distract myself from snapping at her, I reached across the counter we stood near, grabbed my key. I slid my fingers along the edges of it.

"You're not half as boring as I thought you'd be," she said bluntly, and the audacity of her made me stiffen. _Be civil,_ I told myself.

"Did you expect me to that boring?" I asked skeptically. Even as I spoke, the tinge of amusement inside me faded. How could anyone expect me to be boring? How could anyone expect even the tiniest bit of normalcy from me, with the past I had?

While my spirits were plummeting, Santana was grinning. "Not exactly."

I turned my back to her, placed the key on the key holder beside the door. "You can leave now." When there was no sound of movement, I glanced at her over my shoulder; she looked perplexed. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She obviously wasn't one to take a hint. "Leave now," I repeated.

She arched a brow, leaned against the counter. Folded her arms across her chest. "Make me."

Okay, maybe she did get the point, but she ignored it. A rush of irritation that I was sure could easily transition into anger swept through me as I observed her deliberate casualty. Someone who ignored the point, I thought in disgust. We were most definitely destined to be enemies.

She was still waiting for me to say something. Annoyed, I said, "Get out or I'm telling your grandparents."

Her eyebrows lifted and her eyes narrowed, and I knew she wasn't going to be someone that I could just threaten into doing what I say. "Okay. Tell them I said hi."

Anger boiled in my belly. I had no patience left in me to deal with irrational, rude people. I had asked her to leave. So why can't she just _leave?_

"Look," I said firmly, closing my eyes and pressing my fingers over them. I struggled to rein in my impatience. To be perfectly fair, I was grumpy and I knew it. A long plane ride, dealing with my father among other things. That was no excuse to be short with someone I just met, no matter how rude they were. "Please. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep. So please," I repeated through clenched teeth, "Excuse yourself from my room, and I will see you tomorrow."

Swiftly, she stepped forward and completely into my comfort zone. I could see my reflection in her pupils, the color drained from my face in my exhaustion and the way my lips were thin and tight with my irascibility. "Look, princess. I know your daddy is pretty much the self-proclaimed ruler of all mankind or some shit, but unlike everyone else, I'm not scrambling around on my knees trying to suck my way to good fortune, and there are two reasons for that. One, I'm not about to suck anything, and two, I'm my own person, and I'm happy here. I don't need money and I don't need you. My grandparents, however, do, and they're nice people, and they've made a good deal with your dad so you can stay here. So when I see you tomorrow, let's try a little less pampered princess and a little more gracious and grateful. Okay?"

I was literally standing with an open mouth and a slack jaw as I watched her turn on her heel and stride out of the room, her hips swaying and her head held high in defiance. To her credit, she didn't slam the door behind her.

Fury hit me, and so I slammed the door shut myself. Alone in the room, I turned and glared at the broken television, tiny furniture and general shitty quality of the living room. Looks like the person living across from me was another HBIC. I don't care who the hell she thinks she is. I'm not about to be intimidated by some self-righteous woman who lived here doing cheap maintenance just so she could live for free at an Inn that her grandparents owned. I am Quinn Fabray. _Quinn Fabray,_ damn it.

No one stands head to head or toe to toe with me. I will win.

Survival is all about winning.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you guys think. I love reviews! :-)**


	3. Santana's Diary: Entry 1

_Dear **Quinn**,_

_You're not going to believe it, but this is my anniversary present to you. I know how you love to read, so I'm writing you a book. It might be horrible—I'm not the best writer, after all. But I think you'll like it. This is romantic, after all, and God knows how much you love romance._

_I wish I were with you right now. Do you remember that time we went on a picnic, and I told you that you smelled like honeysuckle? There are honeysuckles everywhere around me right now. It's impossible to do anything but think of you. I can see you so clearly in my mind—I told you that you gave me an imagination, and now you're going to see that. I can see you standing next to me, Q. I can imagine how your hair would shine in this sunlight. I can imagine how you would put it into a messy bun on your head, and you'd get so annoyed when strands fell out. I wouldn't care. Your hair looks beautiful even when it's falling out of its bun. I especially miss your eyes. Every time I look at the grass (it's such a bright green) it reminds me of you._

_Do you remember when we first met, Q? I'm thinking about it now, and it's making me laugh. We definitely got off on the wrong foot. Especially the next morning, when you woke me up and yelled at me for sleeping in so late. I was supposed to fix something of yours. It's funny, I can't remember what it was. Was it your bathtub? Either way, you hated me, and I didn't understand why. Now I do, of course, but that's for later down the road._

_This is going to be an amazing book. Just wait, you'll see._

_I miss you so much._

_Love, **Santana**_


	4. Late

_**Santana**_

* * *

I stirred in my bed, groaned. Someone was knocking insistently on the door. Loud raps that seemed to drill into my head.

I rolled over, buried my face in a pillow. Maybe if I fell back asleep, the knocks would stop. It sounded like a good plan.

"Hey! Wake up!"

I jolted to my knees, looked around wildly. When I turned toward the door the bedsheets twisted around my legs, threw me off balance so that with my arms rotating in a desperate attempt to save myself, I fell backwards off the bed.

"Ouch," I said through clenched teeth, my nostrils flaring as I shot the door—and whoever it was beyond pounding on it like a mad thing—a murderous glare. Disentangling myself from the bed sheets, I staggered to my feet. "Hold on a minute," I barked, and the knocking came to a halt.

I plucked a pair of dirty shorts off the bedroom floor and slipped them on so I didn't flash the early-morning visitor, though I had half a mind that I should just to tease them with something they won't get.

"What's the big—" I paused in surprise when I pulled open the door to see Russell Fabray's daughter and in other word's my brand new neighbor, Quinn Fabray, standing outside the door. She wore a business suit that went along perfectly with her furious expression and the blonde hair she had pulled back into a neat bun that sat on the nape of her neck.

"It's three in the afternoon. You told me you would have my television fixed by noon."

I blinked. How could such full, plump pink lips say things in such a cold, irritated manner? "Uh."

"Uh? That's all you have to say?" Quinn poked her wrist with her finger, tapping the glass of the black watch she wore. "I missed the news! I went out today expecting it to be cold like it was yesterday! Do you know what the temperature was today?"

"Um." I leaned out the doorway, glanced out the window that was situated at the end of the hall. It was sunny out with what looked like several cumulus clouds. "Ah, probably somewhere in the seventies?"

"Exactly. I nearly had a heatstroke. I don't have a car yet, Ms. Lopez. I had to walk the two blocks to work."

"Two blocks isn't very far—" I began, but fell silent at her expression.

She took a deep breath and for a minute I assumed she was about to really let me have it. I would have to keep my mouth shut, too, not just because my grandfather gave me an ass-chewing yesterday about being more professional and polite, but because Quinn Fabray was in the right to be pissed. I was three hours late in fixing her television.

Instead of screaming at me, however, she only exhaled, and her words were calm when she delivered them. "You told me that you would fix it by the afternoon, Ms. Fabray. I consider the afternoon to end at noon. Three is too late. When you..." Her eyes traveled from my bare toes to the top of my head, where I'm sure my hair was clumped and fluffy from sleep. "...get yourself cleaned up, please see to it that you get your job done."

My mouth was open in wonder as I watched her march away, her hips swinging under that gray business skirt. _Nice,_ I admitted. A total bitch, but still. Very nice.


	5. Quinn's Journal: Entry 2

**A/N: Just in case you guys were confused, I wanted to point out that the letters (journal, diary) are taking place in the present. The chapters are in the past, and they are being told by whoever's point of view (such as the first thing you read was Quinn's letter to Santana explaining she's going to write her a book, and then the next thing you read was the memory that she's writing to Santana. Then you read Santana's letter, and the next thing you read was her memory she's writing to Quinn, etc etc :) Tell me if any of you are confused and I will be happy to explain.**

Enjoy!

* * *

_Dear __**Santana**__,_

_Today it was raining. It reminded me of that time, about a week after we'd first met, when you came and found me. It was hard, being alone in a new place. You made me feel safe. Even then, you made me feel safe. I pretended you didn't, of course. I hadn't been about to let you have the honor._

_You can have the honor now, San._

_You make me feel safe. Every time I'm around you, when I'm wrapped in your arms, or when we're holding hands, or even when you're smiling at me from across the room, I feel like nothing can touch me. Like you're the only thing there._

_Just a year, right? Twelve pages, twelve months. One year until I see you again. You only left a month ago. We have ten more pages to go after this, beautiful. Ten more._

_I wish I could call you. I wish I could send you letters. Such a cruel rule, to not let two hearts resume beating. And now here, listen to me. I sound just as cheesy as you hate._

_But you love it deep down, I know you do. Now your grandfather is giving me such odd looks because I'm laughing as I write. He misses you too. We both send our love._

_Love always,_

_**Quinn**_

_x_


	6. Drowning

_**A/N: Hey guys, some people have been confused about where Santana is, and where Quinn is, and what the hell's going on. Well, basically, it's a secret :) You'll have to keep reading through the memories to see where it's led them in the present time as they write the letters. So you're supposed to be confused right now, and as you read on things will become clear at the end! There are a few twists waiting for you :)**_

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Quinn**_

* * *

The news was depressing.

I didn't know why I watched it. I suppose it was because of my mother. I winced a little as the thought came to me. I wasn't supposed to think about my mother. When I thought of my mother, I always became sick to my stomach. Yet here I was, remembering how my mother used to watch the news so avidly every night, as though fascinated with the horrors of reality...too fascinated, I thought bitterly, and seized the remote from the arm of the couch so I could punch in the power button. The television shut off with a snap, only fizzling slightly as a aftereffect. I had to admit, Santana had known what she was doing when she brought in new wires to attach. I had assumed that she wasn't a real maintenance woman; to be perfectly honest, I had assumed that she only posed as a maintenance woman so people couldn't say she was bumming off her grandparents for living for free at the apartments they owned. But she'd definitely known exactly what she was doing when she'd finally dragged herself out of bed and into my living room to remain crouched down beside an electrical outlet for a couple hours, plugging and unplugging various wires with deliberate precision.

I was impressed despite myself, which wasn't saying much for Santana. My standards for her were indefinitely low.

I pulled myself out of the uncomfortable couch with gratitude when the phone rang. When I walked to the counter and glanced at it to see that it was my father calling, I scowled and lifted the receiver. "I'm not answering the phone unless you do what I asked you to do," I said loudly, and slammed the receiver back down.

I was trembling a little as I stared down at the phone. I didn't like fighting with my father. He was good to me now, ten times better than—_you're not supposed to think about her_—had been.

"Oh, for God's sake," I said in exasperation when the phone rang again. I lifted it and hung up again, this time slamming the phone harder. When it rang again, I lost all patience and unhooked the entire cord.

I stared at it and felt tears sting my eyes. I wanted to talk to my father. I had no one else to talk to. I was in another state, completely alone. The closest thing I had to a friend was my landlord, and that was only because I was forced to chat with him every morning when I went to pick up my mail. I needed a friend.

Screw that. I threw the phone down on the couch, impatiently brushed away the two tears that had managed to escape my eyes. I didn't need a friend. I didn't need anybody. What I needed was a drink. I grabbed my coat, slung it on like some vengeful prima donna as I thundered toward the front door. I picked up my umbrella since it was raining, dropped my room key into my pocket, opened the door and left.

As I flew down the hallway, I passed by Santana, who was standing high atop a ladder as she changed a light bulb. First irritation, then concern flashed across her face when she spotted me. "Fabray? What's wrong?"

I shook her head and rushed past her.

It was sweet freedom when I burst outside. Rain was pouring, but it felt like Heaven washing bad feelings away. I hate bad feelings. I would sell her soul if I could just never have another bad feeling again for the rest of my life.

I didn't bother to open my umbrella as I ambled down the sidewalk, my shoulders hunched against the cold breeze blowing. The weather here was bipolar, I thought. One minute cool and temperate, the next stifling hot, the next freezing and stormy. It didn't make sense. Just like my mother.

_Stop thinking about her._

I could never stop thinking about her. It was the curse of an intelligent mind, a vivid imagination and an emotional heart. You could never stop thinking, and never stop the clarity with which you think. My mother wasn't the one who haunted me. I haunted myself.

As always, the usual thoughts drifted into my mind to scream at me in anguished silence.

_You knew. You could have stopped her._

_She was your mother._

Not enough. Not enough.

_Why didn't you stop her?_

_**Why couldn't you stop her?**_

I was close to tears again when I burst into a small pub called "**O'Shea's**". I rushed to the bar, slapped my hand on the counter.

"Please," I said, my voice perilously close to breaking. "Give me something strong."

The bartender's brows lifted, but he retrieved a mug from below the countertop, poured something into it. It seared my throat when I kicked it back into my mouth.

Some time later I was staggering down the sidewalk while rain streaked down around me. The alcohol hadn't helped. I was freely weeping now, tears sliding down my face, mingling with the raindrops. People around me threw me half-fearful expressions as they hurried along their way. They were all strangers. They didn't care.

I opened her umbrella and to my dismay, the wind bent it. I felt my will break along with it.

In the middle of the sidewalk I sank to the ground, giving keening sobs as I covered my face with my hands.

_My mother was dead, my mother was dead and it was my entire fault, my mother was gone, gone, gone-_

"Ms. Fabray."

I looked up and had to blink several times before I could see past the rain and the tears to take in the sight of Santana framed against the stormy gray sky. Her expression was one of pity, I thought, but she couldn't be sure. I could hardly think straight, anyway.

"Come on." Santana bent, gripped my waist. I had a moment to think, _there's no way she can pick me up, _before Santana lifted me up. "Let's go." I locked my arms around her, and closed my eyes.

_Damn it._


	7. Santana's Diary: Entry 2

_Dear **Quinn**,_

_It's really nice here. Maybe you'll want to come visit someday. There's a tree here that reminds me of our tree. That willow tree that sits out by the pond at the city park. We've had lots of memories at that tree. I have a surprise for you on it that I'll show you when I come back. I think you'll really love it._

_I met a funny guy yesterday. He's huge, Q, even bigger than my abuelo. He's here on this project too. He said that he knew your father. His name is Frank Marthow, does that sound familiar at all?_

_The weather here is killing me. In a good way, I mean. It's always nice here. No rain or dark clouds. Always sunny and beautiful, just like you. Well, minus the sunny part. Wink wink. It's okay, honey. You know how I love how twisted you are inside. It's the curse of a writer, you said. I think it's a blessing. Perkiness can get old real fast, but pessimism can be really annoying. Being out here with only the company of myself, I find that my negativity can grow quite...obnoxious. Yet another thing you were right about. You're always right. I can't wait to be back home so you can prove me wrong about some more things._

_Love, _

_**Santana**_

**_x_  
**


	8. One Way or Another

**_Santana_**

* * *

She was stirring.

Nervously, I dragged a hand through my dark hair. I wasn't sure why exactly I was nervous; Quinn Fabray just tended to make me that way. That was a new thing for me. I was never nervous. I had to be wary around her.

She was just so unpredictable. I hadn't expected her to show up last week blasting my door to come fix her television, I hadn't expected her today (well, ever) to go get drunk and then wobble along alone in the pouring rain, and I hadn't expected her to sleep it off for seven hours, either. Now I felt like a creep, for remaining at her apartment that long. I had tried leaving, and I'd only managed to lie in my own bed for about ten minutes before I concluded that it felt wrong to leave her alone. Even though she was obviously a bitch, it was still wrong, so I went back. She could wake up and trip and hit her head, after all. Or she could do that thing drunk people sometimes did, where she vomited and drowned in her own puke because she was unconscious.

Now she was waking up, and I was nervous that she would be severely put off by me staying with her. Not that I should care. After all, why should I? She seemed like a whole new dose of crazy. A workaholic type of bitch that refused to let anyone get close enough to see all the bruises she was hiding inside. My grandparents were who were worried about impressing her, and that was only because_ her_ father had threatened them within an inch of their life to make sure she was comfortable.

I stiffened in surprise when those long, dark blonde lashes of hers fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinked a few times. A vaguely repulsed expression came over her face and her lips pursed as though she'd tasted something bitter. She sat up, pushed her messy blonde hair out of her face and moaned at the headache that had obviously hit her hard.

Then she took a deep breath, looked up. Spotted me. Her eyes widened.

"Hello sunshine," I said, feigning nonchalance. The corners of my lips turned upward in a cool, noncommittal smile. "How ya feeling, buttercup?" I bit my tongue the moment the words left my lips. I _didn't _want her to freak out on me. So I should_ stop _being so sarcastic.

She blinked. "Um." She lowered her hands from her head, dropped them on the cushion beside her. "You're in my apartment."

I pretended to glance around. "Yeah, looks like it."

"Why are you in my apartment?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Confusion chased the shock across her face. "Why?" she said, and she sounded wondering as much as puzzled.

I contrived the expression. "Why not?"

She only stared at me. "You are so weird," she said finally.

"I get that sometimes. Don't think anyone's ever called me that after I helped them home, though."

I was almost amused at the shock that came into her eyes. Beautiful eyes, I realized. Hazel. Quinn turned, her hair swinging as she faced the window to see the dark clouds out. "What time is it?"

"You've been sleeping for about seven hours. I got you back here about five after seven."

Her brow furrowed as though she was working out the math in her head. After a moment, she said, "It's two in the morning."

I nodded, trying my hardest not to smile. She must not be very good with numbers. She looked like she would be. Hm. Maybe she was good with words. She had a librarian look to her, as well.

"Um, why are you still here?" She stood and I quickly did the same, gripping her above the elbow when she swayed. "Ow. Sorry. My head feels like someone clubbed me over with a baseball bat."

"I bet. The bartender said you'd had quite a few drinks," I detailed, helping steady her as I eased her back down onto the couch.

"When did you see the bartender?" she asked, frowning up at me. Jesus, she had pretty eyes. Her lashes were nearly as long as mine. Maybe longer, though not as thick.

"After I dropped you off here I drove back over there to...make sure everything was going okay," I lied. I had a feeling she would be the type to get angry if she found out I'd paid for all the drinks she'd had.

"Ugh." She lifted her hands to her head, gripped. "This is why I don't drink."

"You don't drink," I mused. I ran my eyes over her. Soaking wet (I had been too much of a coward to change her clothes) with a hell of a hangover. Yes, she obviously didn't drink.

"I don't!" she insisted. "For this reason exactly."

"Yeah, hangovers can be a bitch," I smiled. "I know something that helps, though. Go run a hot bath."

She shook her head and stopped when the room spun around her. "I can't. I don't have any hot water."

I frowned. "Since when?"

"This morning."

A little troubled, I stood up, strode past her bedroom to her bathroom.

"Hey!" She followed me at a much slower, staggering pace. I was already bent over the bathtub fiddling with the handles when she finally entered and leaned against the doorjamb. I could tell by her expression that the numerous clothes littering her bedroom floor embarrassed her.

"My room's a pigsty, if that makes you feel any better," I said as I turned the hot water dial. Water roared out of the faucet; when I placed a hand under the stream, it was ice-cold. "Hm." I shut the water off, straightened and thoughtfully skated a hand over my hair. "Well, there's probably a problem with the main water valve. I'm going to go check it out." I turned, faced her. "Are you sure you'll be fine?"

She nodded. "I'm going to go make myself a tea." Hesitation came over her face; she lifted a hand, tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear before extending it for me to shake. "Thank you. For…all that you've done. If there's any way I can repay you, just—"

"Don't worry about it." I shook her hand, taking only a moment to admire how soft her skin was. _Back off that track, Lopez. Don't even think about going anywhere near there. _"Just, uh, try to..." I trailed off, uncertain. Was there a delicate way to say that I wanted her not to go off on a reckless drinking binge?

However, she seemed to understand. She nodded once more. "Yeah, I...that wasn't me. I mean to say, that's not something I do, normally..."

I smiled a little. "That's good." I released her hand, stepped around her and back into her bedroom. It smelled like her in there. Some type of light, subtle perfume. Pleasant. "Good night, Ms. Lopez."

She lifted a hand in farewell as she stood in the doorway of her bathroom. I left her apartment, quietly closing the door behind me. I pulled on my jacket as I hurried down the stairs and out into the drizzling rain. Two in the morning, I thought as I jogged around the building toward the shed where the water valve was. I can't believe I was doing this. I wouldn't have been able to believe I would do it for a stranger, let alone a spoiled rotten brat like Quinn Fabray. Still, maybe this could have its advantages. After all, I thought as I began to find and fix the water problem, now I had a reason to stop by her place and have a drink with her or something. She owed me. And maybe then I could get her talking about why exactly her father was so desperate to get her away from New York, and all the way here in little Lima, Ohio. Something was suspicious about this whole set-up. Her father running for governor but wanting his daughter away from him. Her expression when she left the house and again when I found her in the rain, collapsed on the sidewalk and too drunk to walk. The fact that the phone was disconnected when I brought her back, and upon connecting it I saw that she had nearly thirty missed calls. The haughty, cold way she tried to hide herself away. I wanted to know what the hell was up with her. And I was going to find out, one way or another.


	9. Quinn's Journal: Entry 3

_Dear **Santana**,_

_The garden outside is thriving. Remember how hard we worked on it? It's doing so well now. The roses are my favorite. I love how you planted white ones too, how we spelled our names in the white within red. It's beautiful. I wish you could see it._

_These letters are full of wishes and memoirs. You'll like it, I think. You do love good stories, and ours is the best._

_Tonight I'm going to Marley's piano recital. She's so good, Santana. You would be proud of her._

_Well, your grandfather's here to pick me up. I'll tell you how the recital goes in your next letter._

_I love you so much,_

**_Quinn_**

_x_


End file.
